


Two Dread Pirates and a Damsel in Distress

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Pirates, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Roleplay, Threesome - F/M/M, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It's bad luck to have a woman on board," Aramis comments, in a distinctly dodgy accent, as he flops backwards onto the bed – wearing one of Porthos' bandanas around his head, a thin strip of black fabric across one eye, and nothing else.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Dread Pirates and a Damsel in Distress

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo fill: roleplay.
> 
> Content notes: one brief mention of vomiting.

"It's bad luck to have a woman on board," Aramis comments, in a distinctly dodgy accent, as he flops backwards onto the bed – wearing one of Porthos' bandanas around his head, a thin strip of black fabric across one eye, and nothing else.

He looks rather dashing – and of course, he knows it.

Unfortunately for Porthos at least, the effect's slightly undercut by how little resemblance this whole setup bears to _real_ piracy, of which he's known quite enough for one lifetime.

"Is it fuck." He rolls his eyes, leaning back against the headboard, and valiantly resists the temptation to pull Aramis' makeshift eyepatch right off again. "Any of the ships I've crewed, we'd have welcomed one after a couple of weeks."

Aramis smirks, fingers drumming against Porthos' linen-covered thigh. "You're telling me you weren't satisfied with _la Dame de Voyage_?" 1

"I can't believe you two sometimes!" Constance exclaims from the other side of the bed, managing to somehow look extremely dignified in a Grecian-style bedsheet-come-dress and nothing else. "Honestly. As if women are only good for one thing."

"No, you're right," Porthos replies, looking over at her with a rueful smile, and regretting his thoughtlessness immediately.

They both know all too well that Constance had to wait twenty-five years for a chance to show how clever and resourceful she is, and that they don't give her nearly enough credit.

He decides he'll tell her some of his stories later. Of the captains' wives he's met, as strong and capable as their husbands, and just as deadly with a cutlass. Of the man he knew as Roland Gosselin, who sailed alongside him for a whole year before astonishing the entire ship by revealing he was actually a woman. Of the tales he's heard of Sayyida al-Hurra, the great Moorish pirate who ruled the Mediterranean seas, and deferred to no man.

She'll love that, his Constance, with her heart as adventurous as any of those women.

Aramis bows his head, and mimes lifting his hat to Constance, even though he isn't actually wearing it. "My apologies, madame. My fellow scurvy dog here has been so long at sea, he's forgotten how to speak to a lady."

"Been a while for both of us," Porthos says under his breath, forgetting that he's supposed to be being contrite, because Aramis was the one who started it after all.

"Speak for yourself!" Aramis retorts immediately, actually managing to look offended at the inference that he's no longer working his way through the entire eligible population of Paris.

"Yes, alright!" Constance holds up her hands – then clutches at her hastily-wrapped sheet as she realises it's in danger of slipping. "The point is, I don't want to pretend to be a lady, when I have to do that all day anyway! I want to be a pirate, and one of you two can be in need of saving for a change."

"Of course, my darling, that's an excellent idea!" Aramis exclaims in delight – his sudden enthusiasm making Porthos instantly suspicious. "You and I can be fellow pirates, scourges of the high seas, and Porthos here can be our damsel in distress!"

There is so much wrong with this that Porthos barely knows where to start.

Not least that he's the only one of them who's ever been a sailor.

But then he sees the way Constance is looking at him – with love shining in her eyes, as if he's given her a precious gift – and Porthos decides he'd do anything for that smile.

Even put up with Aramis.

The said Aramis leans over then and squeezes Porthos through his smalls, expression turned decidedly lascivious. "I for one look forward to blowing the man down."

"Do you even know what that means?" Porthos asks, before deciding it's actually not worth it.

"Alright," he says instead, grudgingly pulling the bandana off his head and handing it over to Constance, who bows with a little flourish that he'd bet any money she's learnt from Aramis. "But I'm not doing a voice."

 

* * *

 

"We ought to tie you to the rigging," Aramis calls up from his position between Porthos' thighs, his expression wicked. "Stop you squirming."

"Perhaps if you'd just get on with it, I wouldn't have to," Porthos retorts, rolling his eyes for what has to be the third time in as many minutes.

"Can't you two at least _try_ and stay in character? Please?"

"Sorry," Aramis replies glibly, not looking sorry at all. "Now that we've rescued you from the terrors of the high seas, lad," he intones dramatically, "how will you repay us for our kindness?"

Porthos gulps, as genuinely as he can. He's on his back, propped up against a large pile of pillows, both of them leaning over him speculatively; Constance's hands are on her hips, bandana on her head and long, loose curls flowing out from underneath it, making her almost look like a real pirate maiden of legend.

He's supposed to be playing coy, but really he just wants to pull her against him, rip that damned sheet off and fuck her senseless.

"I'm afraid I haven't a thing," he says, spreading his hands as if to indicate empty pockets. "I lost everything I own in the shipwreck. Perhaps I could work for a bit, to pay off my debt?"

"What do you know of sailing, lad?" Aramis asks, in a patronising tone that makes Porthos immediately want to punch him.

 _A damn sight more than you_ , he thinks mutinously, _last time we got on a ship together you spent six hours chucking up._

"Nothing? Oh _dear_ ," Aramis drawls, without even waiting for a reply. He shares a significant look with Constance, hand creeping round onto her backside; and Porthos stifles a grin when she goes to swat him away.

"Isn't there anything I can do to repay you?" Porthos asks, with an innocent smile.

"Well… I can think of one thing," Aramis replies smugly.

"And I can think of two," Constance follows, looking equally smug.

"Oh, thank God," Porthos replies, as if in relief. " _Anything_ I can do."

And Constance finally takes that as her cue to climb forward and straight into Porthos' lap, kissing him deeply; and Porthos feels his cock twitch appreciatively as she presses against his groin through his smallclothes. The roleplay he can take or leave – but _now_ he's getting interested.

He remembers his role just enough to make a muffled noise of surprise, and pulls his head back in shock. "My lady! I didn't expect –"

She laughs at that. "Oh, I'm no lady. And I've been lonely out here on the high seas," she says suggestively, trailing one finger down the sensitive line of Porthos' neck, making him shudder.

" _Very_ lonely. We both have," Aramis supplies, before sliding a hand into Porthos' curls and pulling his head round to kiss him as deeply as Constance had, while Constance's small hands find their way under his shirt, stroking over the broad planes of his chest, lightly pinching a nipple.

"But monsieur, madame, I've never…"

He thinks it's too much for a moment, wouldn't believe himself as a clueless virgin if he were either of them; but Aramis' expression turns positively heated at his admission, and when he looks back at Constance, she's beaming.

"Then my husband and I will only be too glad to show you the ropes," she replies with a wink, pulling Porthos' shirt somewhat roughly over his head and then leaning her weight onto his chest, pushing him back into the pillows.

"You should help him out of that wet linen, Dread Pirate Aramis," Constance continues, voice suddenly deeper and more seductive, as she shifts herself forward to straddle Porthos' waist.

"Gladly, my love," Aramis replies, hands moving to the laces of Porthos' smalls.

"What's your name, boy?" Constance asks, tugging his hair backwards to bare his neck to her.

"Porthos," he replies, because Aramis is apparently still using his own name, and said Aramis keeps 'accidentally' brushing Porthos' cock through his smallclothes; and Porthos decides he really doesn't give a shit any more as he finally pulls Constance's sheet-arrangement apart and lets it pool at her waist, exposing her breasts to his exploring hands.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur _Porthos_ ," Constance replies, leaning forward to lower a breast into his mouth; and he sucks and bites at the nipple gratefully, feeling her shudder and gasp as Aramis' fingers move briefly to her slit, dipping teasingly into the wetness that's undoubtedly already glistening past the edges of those soft full lips.

"I'm Dread Pirate Constance, and I'm going to teach you how to pleasure a woman."

And with that, she straightens up, swings herself round and shuffles backwards to kneel over his face, and presses down.

She's dripping wet already, and her scent surrounds him, envelops him; and he's fully, insistently hard within moments. He reaches up to grasp her thighs with his hands, spreading her lips open so he can kiss and lick along the sensitive channel of her sex.

She moans as he licks a broad stripe directly over the fleshy nub there, and he feels her arch her back in pleasure.

Aramis has managed to wrestle Porthos' linens down to his knees, apparently deciding that will do, and the bed shifts as he climbs up and straddles Porthos' waist, avoiding his cock – rather unfairly, Porthos decides. He can't see anything or really hear either, busy kissing and licking attentively at Constance's sex, driving her slowly wild in the way he knows she likes – but he imagines Aramis is kissing her, playing with her breasts, kneading her arse as she groans and shudders above him.

He clamps his lips onto her clit and sucks lightly, and is rewarded with a sharp gasp that has her pushing her cunt down into his face even harder.

One of Aramis' hands finds his and squeezes in appreciation.

He _loves_ this.

Somehow it reminds him of the sea: the sharp tang of her juices like the shore at dawn, the wetness coating his face as he sucks and licks, feeling her arousal build. Content, for now, not to be touched himself, just to make his pirate queen feel good.

He moves his hand from her thigh to slip one finger inside her, and then a second; pushing them up the cresting waves of her inner ridges to find the smooth, firm spot above, and crooking his fingers, pressing in.

This time Constance's moan is _loud_.

He starts to thrust his fingers in and out, relentless as the tide; and he can tell she's getting close, feel it in the tenseness of her muscles, hear her moans increase in force – then suddenly muffled – by Aramis' mouth, he expects, and imagines Aramis kissing her taste from his own lips.

He sucks again, harder than before, and that does the trick: she wails and clenches around his fingers, jerking staccato against his mouth with the force of her climax, flooding salt water, the ocean in his mouth.

As Constance's moans subside, Aramis lifts her from astride Porthos and into his arms; and Porthos sees her for the first time, slack and heavy-limbed with pleasure, and clinging to Aramis with grasping fingers as he kisses her, calmly and gently, back to shore.

Aramis, who believes that nothing's impossible, who's to thank for them all being here.

Porthos kneels up and pulls him in for a grateful kiss, his other hand finding Constance's waist as she's pressed between them.

Aramis' tongue is as clever in Porthos' mouth as it is in fine speech, and he kisses like he fills a room, letting nothing escape his attention as he licks Constance's taste from Porthos' tongue, from his moustache and his chin, before sucking at his lower lip.

Pulling back, they lock eyes, and share smiles. Aramis' expression is soft and open, his habitual sharpness chased away; and just for a moment Porthos thinks, clear and bright: _yes_.

Then that fucking smirk is back.

"You're a quick learner, lad," Aramis says, clapping him on the back in a way that's thoroughly incongruous with the moment they've just shared. "Now let me show you what you can do for me."

Constance leans around, untangling herself from their arms to kiss Porthos, her lips and tongue forceful against his, before encouraging him slowly down onto his back again.

Porthos has an inkling of what it is Aramis has in mind; and as Constance kisses his neck and strokes his chest, finding a nipple and pinching gently, he feels Aramis propping his knees up, rolling him back to slide a pillow under his hips. Two oiled fingers press first below the base of his cock, then behind his balls, sliding down the cleft of his arse, stopping just short of his arsehole.

Aramis' left hand finds his, in wordless question, and he squeezes his assent.

He's expecting to be breached straight away, but Aramis is full of surprises, as he first feels something cool and wet – a washcloth? – stroking gentle circles, and then it's replaced by something warm and wet which is definitely _not_ Aramis' fingers.

He pushes himself up on his elbow to look down the bed, shocked by what Aramis is doing; and a little shocked to find he can still _be_ shocked, even now.

Aramis gives him a cheery little wave, but doesn't look up, his head deep between Porthos' legs. Licking him.

He looks over at Constance, who smiles back at him so prettily, but with an edge of predatory desire, and doesn't look in the least surprised.

_Filthy minx._

He begins to wonder if they'd planned this all along; if neither of them ever had any intention of playing the damsel in distress, if they'd taken advantage of his honest nature to run rings around him, to get him firmly on his back.

The thought makes him hot all over.

What Aramis is doing just feels strange at first, but Porthos is sensitive there – he's had enough occasion to learn that – and though he's hardly going to come from it, being licked builds a slow-mounting pleasure that makes him sigh against Constance's lips, as she reaches a hand down between their bodies to gently stroke him back to hardness.

She stops suddenly; and Porthos looks down to see Aramis' hand on her wrist, staying her movements. He's raised his head at last, and Porthos feels the definite, familiar pressure of a slick finger circling his arsehole; and he finds he can't look away from Aramis' eyes, boring into his mind as that finger pushes ever so slightly inside his body.

Porthos' hand slips between Constance's legs to see if she's wet again, which she most definitely is; and he imagines pushing inside her for a moment, her sheath clenching just as beautifully around his cock as she had around his fingers.

They all settle into a rhythm after that: Constance lies propped up on one elbow along Porthos' side, kissing and caressing, the two of them playing leisurely with each other's bodies as Aramis works Porthos open. Every now and then Constance's hand strays to his cock, stroking just more gently than Porthos likes; and whenever it starts to get _really_ good Aramis stays her hand and takes it in his, kissing her knuckles one by one, sucking two fingers into his mouth with his dark eyes on Porthos' as if to say, _here's what I could be doing for you._

Porthos has no idea how long it is until he's aching hard, gritting his teeth to stop himself asking for it, the fingers scissoring inside him not nearly enough any more. He wants to be fucked, damn it; and he has half a mind to just tell Aramis to _get the hell on with it_ when those fingers are suddenly withdrawn, leaving him feeling awfully empty for just a moment before Aramis grabs him by the legs and pulls him unceremoniously down the bed.

"What –"

Aramis is on his feet, standing handsome as a Greek statue as he oils up his hard cock, jutting proudly out from his body; and the sight is mesmerising for a moment until he spoils it completely by looking indescribably smug again.

"I think it's best I stand for this one," Aramis says, in answer to Porthos' confusion, "otherwise there's no room for my lady wife to walk your plank."

"That doesn't even make _sense_ ," Constance objects with a sigh; but they both know there's nothing to be done when Aramis is in this kind of a mood.

She kisses Porthos lightly on the lips before clambering astride him and pulling Aramis against her, trapping Porthos' cock between their bodies; and he groans involuntarily as Aramis' own cock is pushed against his, slick with oil.

 _Oh, hello_.

If this is what he thinks it is, it's going to be worth the amateur dramatics a hundred times over.

Aramis squeezes Porthos' leg in a last warning before he pushes the head of his cock inside; and Porthos lets his head fall back and his eyes close as he lets out a deep breath and just _feels_ , savouring the slow-growing warmth of Aramis nudging into him – he's so well-prepared this time that it doesn't even burn, just a delicious, fulfilling stretch.

Aramis groans, curses softly in Spanish as he pushes his cock deeper inside, pace slow and measured; and Porthos groans as much in sympathy as in pleasure, knowing all too well what that feeling can do to a man, how easy it would be to lose yourself completely in that tight heat.

Once Aramis is fully sheathed, he stills; and Porthos relaxes just a fraction further, imagining he's being given time to become accustomed to being filled – and then nearly loses all control when the mattress shifts under him and Constance pushes herself down onto his cock without warning, fast and fluent.

Through sheer force of will he manages to hang on; and his world shrinks to just the two of them, the one he's inside and the one inside him, as perfectly joined as three people can be. His blunt nails digging into his palms, pushing his threatening climax back and back, and nobody's even _moved_ yet.

Then Constance and Aramis begin to rock against him; and though neither of them are moving that hard, the combined sensation is so overwhelming that he feels unmoored by it, set adrift: like a sloop on the open ocean, at the mercy of God himself as Constance jams her knees into his thighs to roll her hips up and down his cock (which actually fucking hurts, but he doesn't care at all if it means he gets this), Aramis thrusting back and forth, searching for the perfect angle, and finding it – and Porthos is _there_ , a starry sky, the spray on his upturned face, lightning splitting the heavens, and the waves pulling him under.

He dimly registers Aramis spilling into him with a curse, and Constance clenching around him with a moan and collapsing against his chest; and when he finally opens his eyes Aramis is stretching out alongside him, matching grins of satisfaction on both their faces.

"Ahoy, matey," Aramis speaks first, still looking insufferably smug. "I think you fell behind there for a moment."

"Shut the fuck up," Porthos replies; but he's grinning too, grinning like he won't stop grinning for weeks.

He loves them both so much he lacks the words to express it, but it's not a grand or overwhelming kind of love; rather it's comfortable, familiar, a love that's fun and undemanding, and all the things he wants to build a home from.

He shifts uncomfortably, realising for the first time that they are all soaked in sweat, as are the sheets, and that a mixture of come and oil is dripping slowly out of him.

"Whose turn is it to scrub the decks?" Aramis asks mildly.

Constance hits him with a pillow.

 _Yes,_ Porthos thinks, there's definitely nowhere he'd rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 "Lady substitutes are recorded as far back as the seventeenth century, when French sailors devised the _Dame de Voyage_ : a collection of curvaceous rags that could only ever resemble a woman to a homesick Frenchman." ([Listverse: 10 Sex Toys with Ridiculously Ancient Origins](http://listverse.com/2013/01/11/10-sex-toys-with-ridiculously-ancient-origins/))


End file.
